Icy
by Lyrics Amidala
Summary: Five times you could freeze from the hatred emanating between Anderson and Sherlock, and the one time they almost act like friends.


**Disclaimer: I still don't own it, and Anderson is one of my new favorite people. Once again, I just had to do this after the mini-sode. I personally feel that Anderson has been intelligent all along, but we're only seeing it now that our deep love for Sherlock isn't clouding the picture. And OH MY GOD, does anyone here remember when Sherlock said "only lies have detail"? Well, guess who put a lot of extraneous detail into his tale atop St. Bart's hospital? That's right SHERLOCK! I really hope John realizes this. Sherlock was too specific, too explicit, which only liars are when they're desperate for someone to believe their tale. OK, that's my rant, and I'm done with it. Hope you all enjoy. And I gave Anderson a first name, because he needs one. And NO, it isn't Sylvia. **

**I**

Martin Anderson hadn't been working in the police department for very long when he first met Sherlock Holmes. And it wasn't a very good experience. He had been typing up some boring case in his cubicle when some asshole in a black trench coat waltzed by and knocked over his cup of coffee. Very, very hot coffee.

"Oh, Jesus!" He cried, jumping up. The man turned to stare at him. "Could you help me here?" Anderson asked irritably, searching for a napkin.

"Whatever for?" The mystery man asked with a hint of a smirk. "The coffee isn't all over _my_ new suit jacket and hand me down shirt from my brother." Anderson scoffed as he started dabbing the coffee stain. Jerk.

"Wait, how did you know the jacket was new and that the shirt was a hand me down?" He asked, eyeing the man. The man rolled his eyes.

"The fabric is still a little stiff, as you can easily see by the sharp creases in it where you sat down," he began, motioning with his hands. "Only new fabric is stiff like that. Also, you forgot to snip off the tags, and the store the jacket is from only opened a couple months ago, and only started selling men's suit jackets last week. As for the shirt, there's a small stain on the sleeve, clearly faded, practically gone. Couldn't be so if the shirt was as new as the jacket. There's also a button missing, so you replaced it with a slightly different one that's flatter than the others. Also, the tag is sticking out from your collar, and there are remnants of ink where someone wrote their name, and it doesn't start with M, the way your name. However, the last name starts with A, same as yours, so it's simply a matter of figuring out who would give you this shirt. Can't be your mother or sister, not feminine enough. Can't be your father, too young looking. Therefore, brother." Anderson's mouth was open, and he quickly snapped it shut.

"You're Sherlock Holmes," he whispered in awe. "Lestrade's friend."

"I don't have friends," Sherlock said coldly. "And your jacket is staining." This snapped Anderson back to the current predicament at hand, and the fact that, despite his genius, this man had just smacked his coffee and didn't care.

"Well, it wouldn't be if you would help me clean it up," he griped, still trying to clean the sopping mess. Sherlock scoffed.

"It was in my way," he said condescendingly. "You should have moved." Anderson gaped, this time in outrage.

"I should have… Excuse you!" He cried indignantly. "This is my office."

"More of a cubicle," Sherlock said, looking around. "Perhaps if you were smarter, you would get promoted."

"Perhaps of you weren't a selfish bastard, you would be kinder and help out," Anderson shot back. And from that day on, they hated each other.

**II**

"No!" Anderson whined upon seeing the familiar whip of coat and scarf. "No, Lestrade, I am NOT working with him!"

"Look, he's our best chance at cracking this case," the DI said, running a tired hand over his face. "I don't care if you two don't like each other." Didn't like each other?! Since the moment they had first met, they couldn't _stand _each other. Sherlock was stuck up and arrogant and infuriatingly clever and annoying and just an all around bastard. And Anderson had worked with him once before, and that had ended with a bloody nose, a ripped jacket, a muddy scarf, and the two of them needing to be pulled apart as they shouted insults in each other's faces. So all in all, not a very good reunion.

"I'm sorry, does he run the police department now?" Anderson asked spitefully. "He's an amateur detective, why should he-"

"I would take offense to the word amateur," a horribly familiar voice drawled. "If it weren't coming from a moron." Anderson sighed, and narrowed his eyes at Sherlock.

"Well then, you won't mind if I call you thoroughly mediocre, or an average detective?" He asked with mock politeness. Sherlock's jaw clenched.

"How did you ever get to be in forensics?" He muttered to himself. "Your mind is so disgustingly simple."

"Beg pardon?" Anderson demanded. "If my mind is so disgustingly simple, how is it that I'm the one with a job, instead of being a "consulting detective" living off of my inheritance?"

"Of course, _you _would take pride in something so mundane as this," Sherlock shot back venomously. "Only someone as placid as you would be completely fine working here while your girlfriend is sleeping with your flatmate." Sherlock then flounced off into the crime scene, and Anderson was left staring after him.

"He's our only chance," Lestrade said apologetically. With an irritated huff, Anderson stormed off.

**III**

"You're holding the gun wrong." Anderson started, and nearly dropped the aforementioned weapon.

"Dear God!" He cried. "What are _you _doing here?" He demanded angrily. Was it bad enough that the man was invading his work? Did he need to butt into Anderson's life outside of Scotland Yard as well?

"Some of us actually want to practice shooting instead of floundering around like an idiot," Sherlock said condescendingly, taking the booth right next to Anderson. WHY?!

"Why don't you go bother Lestrade or something?" Anderson muttered irritably.

"I don't think I could top you in turns of annoying people," Sherlock said with a smirk. Anderson huffed, and squeezed the trigger. He hit the shoulder.

"Not a word," he warned Sherlock, who simply sighed, aimed, and shot his target in the head. Damn!

"Is there _anything_ you're good at Marty?" Sherlock asked mockingly.

"Do NOT call me Marty!" Anderson snapped, shooting the gun again. Ah, the stomach this time. Good.

"Merely an incapacitating blow," Sherlock said dismissively, shooting his target in the head again. Anderson gritted his teeth, and shot again. This time, the chest.

"Why are you even here?" He demanded.

"Maybe I want the pleasure of your dimwitted company," Sherlock said conversationally.

"I'm sure," Anderson sneered.

"How's the girlfriend?" Sherlock asked. Anderson completely missed the target, and the bullet hit the wall.

"None of your business," he spat out. "You little prick," he added under his breath.

"I think that honor goes to you."

"THAT'S IT!" Anderson yelled. "If you don't shut up, you'll be the next one to get hit by a bullet!"

"Touchy, touchy," Sherlock smirked. "You can't blame yourself my dear Anderson. I'm simply better than you." WHY?!

**IV**

"How dreadfully awkward." Anderson groaned (and not subtly either) and turned around to where the tall man in the suit was smirking down at him.

"What are you doing at a Scotland Yard function?" He demanded. "You don't even work in Scotland Yard."

"Lestrade invited me," Sherlock responded. "Considering I am the one who solves all of his cases."

"You don't solve all of them," Anderson shot back. "Believe it or not, the Yard is capable of functioning without you."

"Not if their top man is you." Anderson felt the familiar rage and hatred that always seemed to make its presence known every time Sherlock came within his vicinity.

"Is it some sort of fun pass time for you, ruining special occasions?" He asked.

"I despise special occasions," Sherlock said, sitting down opposite Anderson. "Only boring people like you enjoy them." Anderson flushed.

"And only antisocial psychopaths like you enjoy ruining them," he shot back, shocked by his own words.

"I'd rather my a sociopath than an idiot," Sherlock said. Anderson scoffed.

"Good thing you won't an idiot here," he answered.

"I'm talking to one," Sherlock answered, before turning to the petite brunette who had walked over to Anderson. "And this, I take it, is your lovely girlfriend." Alice smiled and nodded.

"Pleasure to meet you," she said as Anderson gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. "You must be Sherlock Holmes."

"That I am," the detective said with a charming smile. "Anderson, did you know she was already married?" Anderson's eyes bugged out.

"I'm sorry, what?" He demanded.

"Oh, I forgot, you're a functioning moron," Sherlock said, getting up. "I'll see you at the Yard."

**V**

"You little bastard!" Anderson hissed two days later. "My girlfriend left me because she couldn't deal with my 'friends'!" Sherlock yawned.

"Not my fault she was married," he answered.

"Her first husband died, you ignorant little prick!" Anderson had dealt with a lot of crap from Sherlock Holmes, but when the man ruined his personal life, his relationship with a girl he cared about, that was over the line.

"Did he?" Sherlock made a noncommittal hum. "Must have missed that."

"You think you're just so clever!" Anderson hissed. "Deducing crap that no one actually cares about."

"I am clever," Sherlock said.

"No, you're a psychopath!" Anderson spat back.

"Which is better, sociopathic tendencies or idiotic tendencies?" Sherlock demanded. Anderson shook his head with a sneer.

"No, I didn't say sociopath," he clarified. "I said psychopath."

"Do you even know the difference?" Sherlock asked.

"Sociopaths can bear a semblance to normality," Anderson explained nastily. "Whereas psychopaths can't. They're freaks. Messed up freaks. Just. Like. You!" There was a brief moment of silence. Anderson had _never_, _ever_ said anything like that to anyone.

"I'll keep that in mind," Sherlock said.

"Oh, why don't you go mess something up?"

"Why don't you go and fix all those typos in your memo?" Sherlock flounced off. "Moron," he added.

"Freak," Anderson spat back.

**I**

Anderson was not having a good day. In fact, he was having a horrible day. And, for once, it was not the fault of Sherlock Holmes. No, today, on Lestrade's orders, he had, for the first time, taken a gun out and shot someone. All that time practicing at the shooting range must have done him some good, because he nailed the guy straight in the chest. Anderson sighed, and raked a hand through his hair. He was shocked that the aforementioned hand trembled.

"Pull it together Anderson," he muttered to himself. It had to have happened eventually. You couldn't work in Scotland Yard and not have to pull a trigger one day. Besides, he had been acting on Lestrade's orders. It hadn't been his decision. That had to count for something, didn't it? He blew out air heavily through his nose.

"Bad day?" Anderson groaned (quietly though) and turned around.

"Look Freak, I really am not in the mood to deal with you," he said, stuffing papers in his briefcase.

"Obviously," Sherlock responded with an eye roll. "But I'm not here to bother you." I just forgot my scarf."

"Bully for you," Anderson snapped, searching aggressively for a pencil.

"Are you all right?" Anderson finally looked up to where Sherlock was sitting on a desk.

"Beg pardon?" He demanded. "Since when does Freak care about people other than himself?"

"Well, considering you just acted stupider than usual by putting your hand in your sandwich, I felt I was entitled to ask," Sherlock commented dryly. Anderson looked down and, to his dismay, he found his right hand was covered in mustard.

"Oh Jesus!" He cried, searching for a napkin.

"Here, calm down," Sherlock said with a sardonic laugh, handing one to Anderson. "My God, you're as jumpy as a rabbit." Anderson wiped his hand, hoping his shaking was too obvious. Ever since the shooting, he had been acting like someone on drug withdrawal.

"I have the right to be as jumpy as I want," Anderson grumbled, straightening his jacket.

"Suit yourself," Sherlock said, turning to go.

"I shot someone." He wasn't sure why he had blurted it out, and to _Sherlock _of all people, but he did.

"And?" Sherlock was not impressed by Anderson's riveting tale.

"Tonight," Anderson continued. "And… I'd never… shot anyone before." What was miraculous was not that he was confiding in the Freak, but that he looked… oddly sympathetic.

"Oh," he said softly. "I understand."

"Do you?" It wasn't sarcasm, Anderson just didn't think Sherlock was able to connect with people and understand their emotions.

"Yes." Sherlock sat on Anderson's desk, which was the closest he'd ever come to being near Anderson since their first meeting, when he had smacked him and spilled his coffee. "Did you kill the man?" Anderson nodded mutely. "That's always the hardest part."

"You've killed someone?" Anderson asked.

"Once, while on a case," Sherlock supplied. "Like you, I was shaky afterward. It never leaves you, your first kill."

"So I'm going to be a scared rabbit for the rest of my life?" Sherlock laughed.

"Oh no," he reassured. "No, it'll just take some getting used to." He then shocked Anderson even more by patting his knee. "Don't worry." Anderson smiled (very slightly, mind you) in gratitude.

"This doesn't mean we're friends, does it?" He asked worriedly.

"No, you're still an idiot."

"And you're still a freak."


End file.
